Lovely
by Drowned Hopes
Summary: What was once confusing had become addictive habit. The only thing he was sure of anymore was that he didn't want to stop, and neither did they. WARNING: heavy sexual themes, could be viewed as disturbing.


**This is just a snippet of something I came up with when I was in one of my more strange moods. I don't quite understand it myself, but you're welcome to interpret it as you wish.**

**Warnings: slash, femmeslash, het, heavily implied sex, and incest. You have been warned.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own ****Eragon****, nor am I making any sort of profit out of this other than personal amusement.**

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He doesn't know why he does it.

Not anymore, no. It used to be beautiful, wonderful, glorious and oh so new. Lovely. Sometimes he wonders what's wrong with them - he wonders why he does this with her. He lays there and thinks, getting nowhere as his thoughts spin in circles. And then it stops, and she's whispering in his ear _– love you so much, so strange, don't know, how?_ He doesn't understand what she means, but he thinks he might mean it, too.

She's lovely, just lovely.

But then it doesn't matter. Because then Arya's slipping away, slipping out of bed and into her clothes and out the door, away. And he lays there, still whirling, still wondering – _why_.

Soon enough that doesn't matter, either. It never matters for long. Because soon enough she's there again, knocking on the door and coming in and moving closer... until it's just _oh, yes, more_ and _kiss me harder_. She's falling onto the bedsheets, she's tangled in his arms, her raven-black hair wrapped around his fingers. He's groaning and she's gasping; he's shivering and she's shaking – and they're both lost, wandering in the haze of warmth while he's looking down at her. Her skin is as pale as marble and her hair is liquid ebony, spilled around her soft body. She's lovely, so lovely.

But then morning's light falls through the window. Arya falls away, back into her clothes and back through the door. She leaves him there, and he's still nowhere at all.

-o-

He's in Nasuada's room now. It's grand – she's queen now, after all – but neither of them care. Eragon is listening, sitting; Nasuada is speaking, pacing, panicking.

"Eragon," Nasuada says. "Don't you understand?"

Eragon nods, though he isn't sure. Her honey-gold eyes flash, and she understands that he doesn't understand if he understands or not. "I don't either," she's says. "Never. We won, didn't we? Galbatorix is dead, but nothing's changed. People still starve and die anyway, but now it's our fault. It's still – _crazy_. Does it make you crazy? It makes _me_ crazy."

Maybe it does make him crazy. He isn't sure_. _He agrees, though, that it's made _her _crazy.

She's not real anymore – no, she's too real. Too human and too smart, when queens don't have the luxury of being human. But Nasuada is human anyway, and things bother her and shake her and bias her and show that she's despicably, resentfully _human_.

Footsteps are approaching; the conversation is ending. "Nasuada," they hear Murtagh calling. He's there, in the doorway, and Eragon meets his burning hazel eyes, shivering.

Because Murtagh is – _lovely_ – and Murtagh's shivering too.

But then Murtagh looks to Nasuada and he's saying – _come with me? I want to talk to you in private in my quarters. _Eragon understands what Murtagh really wants. Nasuada understands, too; they leave together. Eragon bows his head and closes his eyes. He wonders what would happen if he tried to slip into their minds while they "talked" in Murtagh's nearby room. Would he feel the heat between them? The ice crumbling, them tumbling to the sheets?

There is silence, then barely audible footsteps.

Warm arms wrap around him and a voice whispers – _busy? They're busy; let's be busy, too_ and Eragon doesn't object, though he wonders how Arya managed to get into the room unnoticed.

Arya slips away from him, closes the door and locks it, lifts her shirt away and tosses it. Eragon shivers as he sees more skin; she's lovely, after all, just lovely, and it makes him crazy that she's not the only lovely one. (_Murtagh shouldn't look at him like that._) Maybe it makes her crazy, too.

They tumble onto the bed. Eragon doesn't care that he's doing this – why is he doing this with her? His clothes are suddenly gone and everything stops as he whispers, _don't know, love you so much, why - ?_

Not that it matters. Nothing matters but the way they shiver and the way they move.

-o-

And soon enough he's being slammed against the wall again, chapped lips pressed against his in a demanding kiss. Only this time the body against his isn't soft or slender – it's not even female. The hands sliding across his skin are callused and strong. Eragon's not objecting; he's caught up in the _heat_, the thrum – the beat – of their blood.

It's all so wrong – Murtagh is his brother, he shouldn't like this or want it or crave it like he does. His senses scream "no" while his back arches desperately, while he moans and writhes against Murtagh's lithe body. Those calloused hands scrape across his nipples… traveling down across his stomach to curl around _oh yes right there, please don't stop,_ and Eragon's struggling just to stay sane. He thinks he's losing. In fact, he knows he's losing, because Murtagh's not stopping and Eragon's not _trying_ to stop him anymore.

Words – _not here_ – are just a gasp, a whisper, as Murtagh wraps his fingers around him. Murtagh groans in frustration, then drags him to a nearby room – Murtagh's own room, Eragon realizes dazedly. He's pushed onto the bed, his shirt's torn off, and his belt is undone and tossed aside. The blanket he lies on reek of sex and sweat – of Nasuada, of Murtagh, of him. Then Murtagh's lovely, lovely hands begin to stroke him again, and Eragon's lost again, moaning, head thrown back and fingers clawing at the sheets. Murtagh's panting, his clothing doing nothing to hide his arousal.

When they're done, they lay motionless in bed together, curled up and catching their breath. _Love you, can't understand it, not right,_ Murtagh's whispering, and Eragon's whispering back.

They fall silent as they hear something. Arya's room is right next to Murtagh's, Eragon realizes. Eragon closed his eyes, listening to the noises – the moans – from the other room and knowing Murtagh's doing the same thing. Murtagh's hands begin to wander across Eragon's body as they listen to Arya and Nasuada groan together. _They sound busy_, Eragon whispers to him, and Murtagh just smirks and says _then let's be busy again too. _

Arya and Nasuada, Nasuada and Murtagh, Murtagh and Eragon, Eragon and Arya. Eragon doesn't know how it happened, but he doesn't want it to stop.

He doesn't understand – the four of them, in this complicated relationship, whatever-it-is. Because somehow, it makes sense, at least to them. So he lays there and drifts to sleep, mind still whirling, still twirling, while everything just twists inside his head. Trying to understand this unending circle they're in.

Eragon closes his eyes and tells Murtagh to touch him harder.

In the morning, Arya will be back again.


End file.
